The sphere, hanging from a long wire set into the ceiling of the
choir, swayed back and forth with isochronal majesty.

I knew - but anyone could have sensed it in the magic of that
serene breathing - that the period was governed by the square root of
the of the wire and length and by it, that number which, however
irrational to sublunar minds, through a higher rationality binds the
circumference and diameter of all possible circles. The time it took
the sphere to swing from end to end was determined by an arcane
conspiracy between the most timeless of measures: the singularity of
the point of suspension, the duality of the plane's dimensions, the
triadic beginning of K, the secret quadratic nature of the root, and
the unnumbered perfection of the circle itself.

I also knew that a magnetic device centered in the floor beneath
issued its command to a cylinder hidden in the heart of the sphere,
thus assuring continual motion. This device, far from interfering
with the law of the Pendulum, in fact permitted its manifestation, for
in a vacuum any object hanging from a weightless and unstretchable
wire free of air resistance and friction with oscillate for eternity.